


It’s always hot

by dreamhusbands (soup)



Category: Inception (2010)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Community: inceptiversary, Eames-centric (Inception), Inception Big Bang Challenge, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-31
Updated: 2019-07-31
Packaged: 2020-07-25 01:15:33
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,175
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20024131
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/soup/pseuds/dreamhusbands
Summary: Nash delivers pizza and Eames delivers Nash.(aka. Eames had rather hoped the backseat would serve far more nefarious purposes tonight, but there are many roads that lead to Rome. Arthur/Eames.)





	It’s always hot

**Author's Note:**

> First and foremost! Were it not for the support from the absolute legends over on the _You’re waiting for a train_ Discord this would have never seen the light of day. A warm thank you to everyone who was so supportive and patient throughout this adventure, my very first Big Bang challenge. Inception really is turning into a fandom of firsts for me, and I remain indebted to everyone who has inspired, facilitated and encouraged my participation in this year’s Inceptiversary events. A big thank you to [Juliane](https://archiveofourown.org/users/regencyaus/) for being a maestro behind the scenes on this Big Bang event.  
>    
>  [Rudi](https://archiveofourown.org/users/rudimentaryflair) has been so generous with her galaxy brain and time, and is to be credited for this turning out so so much better than it would have without her invaluable input as beta. I cannot stress enough how grateful I am for her feedback and encouragement. All remaining hiccups are all mine and mine alone. I haven’t written smut in forever, so... feedback welcome! Lastly, but not certainly not least, a huge thank you to [Allie](https://boltplumart.tumblr.com/), who took a chance on me and this ridiculous story when it was still a transient idea in my one (1) braincell. I’ve embedded her marvellous art within the story below, but please go check out and reblog the original post **[here](https://boltplumart.tumblr.com/post/186824788814/for-echokomazgeda-and-their-lovely-fic-for-the)**. It’s so lovely. I’m so cry with feels.  
>    
>  Without further ado, strap in and prepare to be disappointed, if only because the next time you order pizza it won’t be Tom Hardy who delivers it.

🍕

  
  
by boltplumart

🍕

In the backseat of Eames’ rental car, the pizza boxes slide from one side to the other. Eames had rather hoped the backseat would serve far more nefarious purposes tonight. Instead, he’s being cautioned by a pimply teenager to take the turns slower so that the pizza toppings won’t get messed up. Fate is a cruel mistress; his original plan for the perfect night involved a different kind of topping, after all. 

Resigned to his fate, it’s with a quiet sigh that Eames takes Nash’s warning under advisement and eases off the accelerator at the next corner.

🍕

Despite the unexpected turn of events, Eames can’t _really_ bring himself to regret his actions. He doesn’t regret the first deed of the evening, pulling over after witnessing a hit and run, and he doesn’t regret then helping Nash get himself sorted. What Eames regrets is pretty much everything that’s followed.

Eames regrets sticking around Nash’s place of employ after offering the kid a ride home. He regrets sticking around to get embroiled in the farce that’s now shaped his evening into something unrecognisable. Whatever hopes he had of restoring his night back on course went out the window the moment he failed to stand up for himself (and for Nash) in the face of Italian tyranny.

_That’s_ the moment Eames regrets. The moment he remained seated in the driver’s seat as Nash stepped out of the restaurant with a stack of pizzas clutched to his chest and an irate Italian hot on his heels. He regrets not reacting to the dawning realisation that the grumbling Italian was _also_ carrying a stack of pizzas and walking in Eames’ direction. He regrets not putting an end to it then and there, the look of abject dejection on Nash’s face weakening his resolve as Eames realised what he was getting roped into. He regrets not stepping out of the car and setting the restaurant’s owner straight. He regrets not stepping up to that greasy arsehole threatening Nash with unemployment for wanting the rest of the night off after being struck on the job. Despite _still_ managing to deliver the pizzas he’d had left. He regrets acquiescing at the sight of Nash’s pleading look. He regrets the moment he kept still and quiet in the driver’s seat as eighteen pizza boxes were ceremoniously dumped into the rental’s backseat. So much for doing _the right thing_. 

Regretting won’t do much for them now though, yet it helps pass the time while he keeps the car idling on the curb, waiting for Nash to deliver pizza after pizza after pizza.

Eames watches as Nash hobbles unsteadily down the freshly-watered lawn. The teenager is clearly favouring his left leg.

“Right—” he says as soon as the kid settles into the passenger seat— “That’s it, mate, I’m taking you to A & E or home—” he arrests Nash’s protest with a look— “This is bollocks and you know it.”

“I can’t lose this job, dude—” Nash struggles to do something with his hands— “Marco said I could go home after these. There are only a few left.” The look he levels Eames is leaden with meaning, imploring even, and it wouldn’t even work on Eames’ myopic nan, alas... 

“Ten is not a _few_ ,”

“—they’re all in the same neighbourhood and four of them are for one of the orders,” Nash interrupts. 

The kid needs to work on his line delivery, but Eames isn’t about to encourage him. If anything, the nasty cuts on Nash’s face and arms more than make up for it. Eames scrubs at his face and heaves a sigh.

🍕

They are six pizzas down with four to go when Nash gets unceremoniously jumped. At least that’s what it looks like from Eames’ vantage point and he’s certainly not going to let that run its course. Whoever has unceremoniously kidnapped their delivery boy is about to have a very unpleasant surprise.

Eames cuts the engine and slides the key between his knuckles. He’s not even halfway up the driveway when he hears raised voices. He’s about to bang on the front door when it swings wide open and brings him face-to-face with a stranger. A handsome stranger holding a phone to his ear.

“Yes, that’s what I said—” the man points at him— “Inside. No, not you—” he barks into the phone— “ _You_ tell Marco that I want to have a word with him. No I don’t care—” he looks over at Eames expectantly, eyebrows climbing towards his hairline— “Well you tell him I’d like to have a word with him about his employee, Nash Ramirez. Yes, I’ll hold—” he fixes Eames with a glare— “You coming in or what?”

“Since you’ve asked so politely,” Eames retorts, deadpan. He steps past the threshold distractedly, allowing his gaze to sweep across the house’s front room. He takes in the layout, seeing nothing untoward, but the lack of Nash worries him. This man’s behaviour does little to assuage Eames’ trepidation. 

Eames doesn’t take off his shoes, pointedly sidestepping the barefooted stranger and inviting himself further into the house. The pizza box is on the dining room table, unopened. Nash’s beanie and jacket are heaped next to it. He senses more than hears the stranger follow into the living area behind him and turns around to face him.

“Where is he?” Eames snaps. 

He juts out his chin when the man arches his brow at him, looking wholly unimpressed.

“Bathroom, washing up. His mother has a heart condition. Wouldn’t do to have her keel over when she picks him up,” the man says, motioning towards the general direction of the _opposite side of the house_. Then, he offers his hand to shake.

“Arthur.”

Eames takes it, hesitating briefly. His less-than-amiable squeeze is returned in kind, revealing unexpected strength. He glances at their clasped hands and trails his gaze up. Arthur’s forearm is beautifully sculpted, leading Eames to wonder what the rest of him looks like.

“Eames,” he says, allowing himself a long look at the stretch of Arthur’s body. He decides that though likes what he sees he’ll endeavour to remain clear headed. 

“Mr Zanotti...”

When Arthur turns around to speak into the phone in a sickeningly self-effacing tone, Eames shudders. He brushes his hand down the front of his shirt and watches as Arthur turns on his heel. He is very happy not to be Mr Zanotti. As is Nash, who emerges from a hallway with an ice compress to his temple, looking absolutely wretched. They both watch Arthur disappear into the kitchen, before Nash notices Eames.

“Oh, sorry. I didn’t get a chance—”

“—You know him then?” Eames interrupts.

Nash nods, making his way towards the seating area. Eames watches the teenager plop himself down into the couch and considers making his exit. Clearly this is out of his hands now, the baton passed on to someone more familiar and willing to deal with the situation than he is.

Eames glances towards the kitchen, taking in the broad line of Arthur’s shoulders and tapered waist. His gaze lingers on Arthur’s backside, the dark chinos practically moulded to the muscled curves.

It’s with a dry mouth that he drops himself into the armchair across from Nash. They wait out the storm in companionable silence. Arthur disconnects the call and makes another, but Eames diverts his attention to the furnishings, seeking to make sense of their owner.

🍕

Arthur reminds Eames of a caged animal, boxed in by the trappings of a settled, adult life. A lonely life, he notes, casting a closer look at the living room. His eye is drawn to the empty spaces: the mantelpiece devoid of picture frames and of postcards, the shelves stacked high with well-loved books, and the singular coaster on the coffee table. He glances back to Arthur, who continues to pace, albeit less furiously, along the back of the couch. Eames then glances down at Nash, who sits contrite in the middle of said couch, head bowed as he balances a cold compress against his temple. For all of his sullenness, he looks to have regained some colour in his cheeks.

Movement in Eames’ peripheral vision draws his attention out the window, but from where he sits there’s nothing to see. His paranoia abates when someone knocks on the front door, the sound followed by a disembodied female voice.

“Arthur?”

Nash’s head snaps up, but Arthur reaches over to squeeze the teenager’s shoulder before walking towards the door. The sound of the it opening is followed by a string of panicked English and Spanish, which Arthur counters in a reassuring tone. 

Two holidays in Ibiza hardly give Eames any leeway to critique another man’s Spanish, but even he can tell Arthur’s accent is  _horrendous_. 

“Nash, mijo?” A woman appears. She casts a distracted watery smile at Eames before all of her attention zeroes in on her son. The resemblance is uncanny, he notes, and he can see the frailness Arthur alluded to, in the thinness of her wrists. Her arms look as though they might break from reaching around Nash’s tall frame. Eames bites back a smirk as he watches the teenager hunch, all gangly arms as he tries to simultaneously reassure his mother and pry her off.

🍕

Eames settles back into the armchair while Arthur and Mrs. Ramirez— _call me Marta, please_ —discuss heatedly. The details of the conversation evade him, his attention focused on body language rather than the mismatch of Spanglish and legal jargon. It occurs to him that Arthur might be a lawyer, which is a thrilling notion given Eames’ casual relationship with the law and his tendencies to play with fire. He easily pictures Arthur with a severe hairdo, leather briefcase— _no, a messenger bag_ , and a finely tailored suit. Eames folds his hands over his stomach and crosses his ankles, picturing what this scene might look like with a courtroom backdrop.

All the while Nash leans awkwardly against the back of the couch, half-heartedly holding the compress to his temple. Whenever his hand slips, Marta repositions his arm for him without looking away from Arthur. Eames is far too entertained to consider the sensitive sensibilities of embarrassed adolescents, and meets Nash’s exasperated looks with a commiserating, albeit too broad, smile.

🍕

“You certainly saved the day,” Eames says as he hears the door close. It’s his cue to leave, he knows, but Marta smiled at him as if he belonged and Arthur’s yet to make any suggestion that he leave.

“Yeah, no, not really. The state of California certainly isn’t standing in Nash’s corner. There’s no case unless the police gets involved and the Ramirez won’t—” he stops short as if remembering legal privilege and then waves his hand—“And anyway, Marco’s probably already making it up to the customers.” The _capitalist asshole_ is heavily implied.

“Well, Nash did insist when I pressed,” Eames argues for the sake of it. He knows next to nothing about federal law, let alone state law, and he has no reason to defend Marco, but he’s wired to play devil’s advocate whenever the chance arises.

“It’s abusive behaviour and ethnic minorities are subjected to it far more than the state likes to admit,” Arthur counters, the set of his mouth and narrowed dark eyes daring Eames to challenge him.

The effect is a mixed bag, really. Arthur remains firmly classed in the ‘regretfully insufferable’ category, but Eames’ judgement softens somewhat upon witnessing just how invested—and how sincere—he is. Despite Arthur’s hardened exterior and sharp edges, his actions have revealed unexpected softness; even his fury sources from softheartedness. Arthur _cares_ , and Eames knows first-hand how necessary it is to thicken your skin when you care that much.

“He’s just a kid,” Eames says agreeably, pushing himself out of the armchair. “I wish I’d skelped the wanker when I had a chance, but I admit I was too taken by Nash’ plight, and wouldn’t have known what to do with him otherwise.”

“You did more than most would’ve,” Arthur says. “Thank you for that.”

Arthur follows Eames towards the entrance nook, raking a hand through his hair. In the oversized mirror hanging across the opposite wall Eames catches the motion and feels a sudden spark of _want_. It draws attention to the low thrum of desire he’s felt towards Arthur since first laying eyes on him.

“Anyway—” Arthur adds, dropping his hand— “Insurance or not that bill would have thrown the family into the red. There’s a better suited clinic nearby that I doubt Nash knew about. Even if he had I doubt he'd have considered—” a huff— “medical costs are just another of California’s long laundry list of problems.”

“And you bear the weight of them all, don’t you darling?” Eames asks, turning his back to the front door. It effectively blocks Arthur from opening it for him, not unless he wants to get very close and personal, very fast. Eames really wouldn’t mind.

“Excuse me?”

“Come out for a drink with me,” Eames says. He reaches behind him to blindly grope at the door knob. If he’s going to be rejected he’d prefer a hasty escape. “It’s been a rough night,” he adds, tightening his grip on the metal handle. He has no recourse to argue his case give his track-record, let alone against a lawyer.

Arthur scrubs at his face and lets out a loud sigh through his fingers. Eames tamps down on the surge of disappointment as soon as he feels it, quick to see the truth revealed in Arthur’s body language.

“You have no idea,” Arthur says, dropping his hand to his neck. He rubs at the skin over his collar and frowns at Eames’ knees before looking up. “I can’t though—” Eames feels electric as he translates that into _that’s not a no_ — “I really would rather just stay in tonight, but,”

“—I’ll have a drink here, if you’re offering,” Eames cuts in, unwilling to relinquish a half-won battle. He drops his hand from the door handle and slides it into his pocket, manifesting an air of self-assuredness he is willing to play up for appearances. His life is composed of moments like these, pushing for more where he’s given little room to move forward. What he lacks in the argumentative facts department he more than makes up for with roguish charm.

Arthur looks blindsided, jaw slackening. Eames’ can’t get a proper read, but he prefers his mark to be unstable; it’s easier to tip them in a particular direction. Arthur squeezes the back of his neck before withdrawing his hand. “I mean—” he frowns, gaze searching— “I didn’t exactly plan on having any company.”

“You’re welcome to mine,” Eames says, voice like crackling firewood and warm honey. It’s only once he’s vocalised this and simultaneously sees Arthur jar that he realises how pretentious it sounds. Arthur may be pliable, but there’s an inherent rigidness Eames shouldn’t ignore. Softening his smile with a show of crooked teeth, Eames scratches the back of his head to belie sheepishness. “If you’ll have it, that is. I’ve only just arrived in town and am in need of company myself.”

Eames doesn’t say _friends_ , because a friendship isn’t what he’s looking for. Lies are harder to sell than non-truths, despite being one and the same, and he doesn’t take Arthur for a fool. Friendships are built on shared experiences and interests. By the way Arthur’s assessing gaze works its way up Eames’ body, there’s definitely enough shared interest to forge something a little less than friendship but nevertheless worthwhile. Attempting to oversell it would only cheapen what’s already there.

“And there are four unclaimed pizzas in the car,” Eames adds as an afterthought, brow furrowed. He’s relieved it’s a rental and not his own leather seats getting saturated with the smell.

“Was this your original plan for the evening, to sleaze your way into a stranger’s bed, or—” Arthur cuts himself off, thoughtful expression twisting into horror. It takes no time at all for Eames to trace the origin of that look.

“No—” his affront is genuine— “Christ, no. What kind of man do you take me for?” Eames rakes a hand through his hair, shaking his head as he frowns down at Arthur’s feet. “Christ,” he mutters.

“I don’t know what kind of man you are,” Arthur says. There’s no lie there, but in spite of the terrible things Eames has done to people there’s a limit to how low he’s willing to sink. Mistrust is a personal affront for a con man like himself, and the mere suggestion that he’s been working up towards this all night is galling.

“—certainly not that kind. Is that the impression I’ve given you?”

Arthur averts his gaze. He rubs the contrition off from his lovely features before looking back at Eames, brow furrowed.

“The world’s an ugly place and I know better than to take things at face value. What you did for Nash is a show of good character, yeah, but you’re inviting yourself into my bed and I know nothing about you, Eames—” he seems stunned at his own vehemence and deflates upon meeting Eames’ eye— “I mean, is that even your name? Surname? It’s like if I introduced myself as... Prada.”

“—well I hear the devil certainly loves wearing Prada,” Eames snaps back, uncharacteristically defensive. He’s never been turned down before. The door is right behind him, and beyond it the opportunity to find better-suited company. Yet, he doesn’t leave. He could, he should, but he doesn’t. Instead, he holds Arthur’s gaze, their furrowed brows, thinned lips, and flushed cheeks matched. 

No amount of alcohol can make up for the kind of chemistry they have. There’s something here, organic and palpable and electrifying. The thought of taking a gamble on someone else leaves Eames feeling hollow and punctures his ego, creating a drain for his anger, leaving in its stead unclaimed verve that’s quick to bind with latent arousal. Eames’ gaze darts down to Arthur’s thinned lips, his own mouth softening as he sighs.

“Eames _is_ my name.”

It’s perhaps the only honest thing about him aside from his attraction, but he’s not about to voice that. 

“ _Fuck it._ ”

Eames glances up just in time to watch Arthur blot his field of vision. He lets out a startled sound as strong hands press into his chest, the heavy weight of them offset by the feather-light press of lips to his own. 

_Oh_ , he thinks, wrapping his hands over Arthur’s hips. _Yes_ , he thinks, seeking the warmth of Arthur’s mouth. _Finally_ , he thinks, breaking the seal of Arthur’s lips and suspending all further thought processes. 

🍕

There’s no telling how much time has passed when Arthur breaks away, but Eames reckons it’s less than he needs. Dizzyingly breathless and panting, he chases after Arthur’s mouth, walking them away from the front door. Arthur briefly humours him, yielding with a beautiful sound before suddenly yanking on the reins.

“Ground, _ah_ —” Arthur’s fingers dig in a little deeper into Eames’ hips— “rules.”

Eames mouths the stubble across Arthur’s jawline, dragging his lower lip against the grain. He huffs a chuckle and tugs on Arthur’s earlobe once, basking in the shudder he elicits in doing so. “What happened to being reckless?”

Arthur pulls away so abruptly that Eames sways, his grip faltering on Arthur’s hips as the man takes a step back. The distance between them is unwelcome, but when Eames moves forwards to close it Arthur matches his step, leaning back to fix him with an impassive stare.

“I’m not taking those kind of risks, Mr Eames,” Arthur says, his hands settling on Eames’ forearms. He doesn’t pry Eames’ away, but the strength of his grip suggests he could do so with ease should he will it. “Barebacking isn’t an option. If that’s going to be a problem...”

“I’m not as irresponsible as you seem inclined to believe, darling,” Eames interrupts, tightening his grip on Arthur’s hips, his fingertips paling under the strength of his hold. “I condone temerity—” he yanks Arthur forwards and relishes in the crash of their bodies— “Not stupidity.”

Arthur slides both hands up Eames’ arms, tentative, his honeyed gaze searching. Eames loosens his grip a fraction and schools his features, allowing his sincerity to bleed through. He is a con man after all and affecting trust is vital to his success. But though he’s unabashed about his unscrupulous nature, the thought of Arthur taking issue with his character is oddly discomfiting. He doesn’t feign sincerity this time, and he doesn’t examine too closely what compels him not to.

Arthur must find whatever reassurance he seeks because he slides his hands upwards the rest of the way, hooking his elbows over Eames’ shoulders whilst leaning in for a conciliatory kiss.

It’s a matter of seconds before the slick twist of tongues turns frenzied, Arthur’s hand cupping the back of Eames’ head as he adjusts the angle for a better fit. Eames’ hands resume their exploration, tugging on the hem of Arthur’s t-shirt. His calloused fingertips seek warm skin like missiles seek a target. Arthur reacts beautifully by arching into him, the solid line of his body tantalising.

“Any other—” Eames groans, lowering his mouth to Arthur’s jaw once again— “ground rules? Before _all_ blood leaves my head?”

“Nothing above the collar,” Arthur says, his words a little garbled. Yet the little devil drops his head back with a moan, instinctually offering the very thing he’s taken off the table. “Just those two—” he whines, wanton, as Eames drags his teeth down his throat— “Condoms yes, hickeys no.”

Eames is glad he asked before losing brain function because with a reaction like _that_ he’d happily bite Arthur’s throat black and blue. He begrudgingly relinquishes the expanse of Arthur’s throat to instead reclaim his mouth.

There’s no place his hands will settle, the expanse of Arthur’s body new territory he yearns but has no patience to thoroughly explore. He gropes at Arthur’s back, sliding his hands down the curve of his ass to cup him—rough and possessive—through soft cotton. Arthur bucks at that, sliding his thigh between Eames’ parted legs and gropes Eames in turn. Fingers splayed as they are Arthur’s hands cover the entire expanse of Eames’ backside; it’s unexpected and welcome. They both groan into the kiss as their hips roll in tandem, thighs pressing upwards into one another, trousers stretched uncomfortably tight.

Eames reaches up to cup Arthur’s face as they break away for breath. He delights in the other’s heavy-lidded expression and drags his thumb over Arthur’s swollen lower lip. The flick of Arthur’s warm tongue has him bucking instinctively, breath sticking to his lungs as he watches his thumb disappear into the wet heat of Arthur’s mouth. He keeps his other hand on Arthur’s arse, thumb stroking along the inseam.

“Arthur—” Eames croons. He slips his thumb out from Arthur’s mouth, swiping wetly over the corner of Arthur’s lips to stroke his cheek. The thought of watching this very mouth stretch around his cock sends a shiver down Eames’ spine, knees weakening. In faltering, Eames finds himself pressing more heavily into Arthur’s thigh and groans, unrestrained.

Being at Arthur’s mercy is suddenly very, very appealing. Eames slides his fingers into the tangle of freshly-washed hair, thumb pressing into Arthur’s cheekbone as he goes. When Arthur leans into the touch, Eames leans in for another kiss. As they share breath, he voices his most pressing desire.

“I want you to fuck me, Arthur.”

The steady hands unbuttoning his shirt are suddenly very clumsy. Arthur shudders, his nose burying into Eames’ cheek as they stand temple-to-temple, panting heavily.

The heat between them is stifling.

Eames leans forward to mouth at Arthur’s neck, shuddering at the thought of burrowing into that very spot when Arthur fucks him open.

“I know you want it too, _Arthur_ ,” Eames taunts, closing his teeth around Arthur’s earlobe.

Arthur huffs through his nose, hands dropping from Eames’ chest where he forgoes the remaining buttons to start on the belt. He twists away from Eames’ mouth to watch what he’s doing, shoulders shaking at every shuddering breath.

🍕

Arthur sinks to a knee in one fell swoop. He noses at Eames’ briefs, inhaling the heady bouquet of arousal. It takes considerable restraint for Eames not to wind his fingers into Arthur’s short hair and exact from him what he desperately wants. He wants that hot, wet mouth on his prick. Instead, Eames behaves, and Arthur holds fast to his principles, nuzzling close-mouthed.

Arthur traces the length of Eames’ cock through the soft fabric, the touch maddeningly light.

Eames clenches his jaw, fingers twitching at his side until he’s unable to resist. He cups the back of Arthur’s head, encouraging. Instead of parting his lips, Arthur rests forehead against Eames’ stomach and sighs. Eames twitches underhand, trapped in his dampening briefs. He wonders if he’s made a mistake. He cards his fingers through Arthur’s hair, touch genteel, and elicits another sigh.

Arthur, frustrated with his convictions, gives both of Eames’ hips a squeeze as he straightens to his feet. He presses his lips to the corner of Eames’ kiss-swollen mouth and bumps their noses together.

“Condoms,” he whispers, before pulling away.

Eames is left to stand in the middle of the living room, dazed by arousal and slow to process the sudden, unwelcome change of pace. Shaking his head, he palms himself through his briefs and follows. He discards his shirt along the way to cool his feverish skin.

“Arthur?”

“In here!”

The muffled response leads Eames into a bedroom, where he sees movement coming from what he presumes is an adjacent bathroom. He takes in the space, noting with a furrowed brow the open suitcases which could either be half packed or half unpacked. Arthur’s exit from the bathroom, a box of condoms in hand, arrests the question on his lips.

Eames hums at the sight of him, pleasure thrumming through his body. Arthur is still wearing too many layers, but he looks considerably debauched already. The front of his chinos is stretched tight over his noticeable erection and the stretch of his trim torso is flushed. His lips are red and swollen and his hair, damp and finger-combed, juts in every direction. Eames spies with his heavy-lidded eyes a few stray curls amongst the halo of frizz.

“Aren’t you a sight,” Eames croons, closing the distance between them as Arthur approaches. He slides his hands down Arthur’s flanks, drawing their hips flush together.

Arthur allows himself to be reeled in, arm skirting Eames’ waist and other hand splaying across Eames’ lower back. Their lips meet. He hums against the seam of Eames’ plush mouth, prying it open with his tongue.

The thought of what that tongue could do to other parts of him has Eames’ grip tightening. He tugs Arthur’s body closer until the press of their clothed cocks has him bucking into the other. They fall easily into a rhythm, rutting against one another as their kiss grows more frantic. The room fills with the sound of muffled moans and huffed groans, the whisper of cloth moving against cloth drowned out by the rhythmic thump of blood rushing through their bodies.

Without breaking apart, they begin to move away from the threshold and towards the bed. Arthur leads, his hands splayed over Eames’ hips as he mouths at his throat. He stumbles over his own feet unsteadily as he bucks forward into Eames’ all-thumbs touch. 

Eames barely notices the uncomfortable pinch of the condom box digging into his skin as he topples onto the bed. He groans as he loses his grip on Arthur’s fly, sinking into the mattress. He blindly swats the box of condoms from beneath him, clambering further onto the bed as he watches Arthur strip himself of his soiled chinos.

Eames realises, with a dizzying twist in his gut, that the stain is his doing. He palms himself, mouth dry, when Arthur peels away both trousers and briefs, revealing a gorgeously flushed cock. Barren and desperate, Eames clenches in anticipation.

Eames is just about to sit up when Arthur kneels on the bed, walking his hands forward until he is hovering over him, not touching. Eames glances between them. He makes a strangled sound at the sight of Arthur’s balls bobbing heavily between muscled thighs.

“Hey,” Arthur says, voice rough. Eames glances back up, dazed. His balls feel tight against his body, the heat radiating from between his thighs verging on uncomfortable. He needs release. He needs—

“Arthur,” he pleads. He cups the back of Arthur’s head, fingers tightening on the wayward mane to guide their mouths together. Arthur drops his weight onto his forearms, elbows tucking into Eames’ ribs, and kisses Eames thoroughly.

When they break apart, the room is spinning. Eames is half-worried his heart will punch through his sternum, though he’s equally worried about his cock, throbbing in its increasingly suffocating confines. He forgets all about his heart when Arthur latches onto his throat and spirits a hand between them to grope at him through the fabric. 

“Arthur,” Eames begs, head dropping back into the plush comforter.

“Mhmm?”

Eames plants both feet into the bed, desperate for more friction. His socked toes curl around the mattress’ edge as he bucks into Arthur’s touch. His head lolls to the side, eyelids sliding shut as his whole body feels alight beneath Arthur’s ministrations.

Whatever he’s about to beg for gets swallowed in a strangled moan, Arthur’s hand finally on his cock. Skin to skin, the slick slide of Arthur’s calloused fingers—aided solely by Eames’ pre-come, is unbearable. He bucks into the touch, eyes rolling to the back of his head as Arthur’s mouth simultaneously finds that delicate spot beneath his chin.

“Arthur,” he pants, voice like gravel being overturned. He exacts a groan from the man above him by tightening his fist and crushing their mouths together. Arthur yields, allowing himself to be desperately mouthed at as he keeps stroking Eames with easy, slow slides of his palm.

They continue to kiss until Arthur pushes up and off. Eames tries to hold him in place, to use his considerable weight advantage to tip them over and pin the other down, but it turns out to be no more than an unfulfilled whim, his body immune to his muddled, transient impulses. Instead, he allows himself to be manhandled, finding a smidgen of relief as Arthur steps off the bed to free Eames from his twisted briefs.

With one knee on the bed, Arthur reaches for the nightstand’s drawer for a bottle of lubricant. It’s a familiar label, but Eames doesn’t pay it any mind. Instead, Eames watches the stretch of Arthur’s torso, admiring the twist of muscle and sinew. He hungrily rakes his gaze downwards, groaning at the sight of Arthur’s cock and feeling wrongfooted for not having had a chance to touch it, _taste_ it. Seeking to remedy this, Eames props himself up onto his elbows to reach for it. His hand’s batted away.

“Don’t or I’ll come,” Arthur warns, tossing the lube onto the mattress and reaching for the condoms. He rips the box’s plastic wrapper with his perfectly straight American white teeth— _unopened until now_ , Eames notes distantly. As he continues ripping into the package with his fingers, Arthur looks down at him. “Unless you don’t want me to fuck you—” he fishes out a condom and tosses the box to the side— “would you rather do something else?”

Eames leans back onto both elbows and finds himself dry-mouthed at Arthur’s suggestion. There’s no judgment in his tone, which causes a funny feeling to weave its way through Eames’ chest. That flutter is crushed immediately by the frustration at seeing Arthur so composed.

It takes a few swirls of his tongue to find his words and the necessary moisture with which to voice them. Eames shakes his head, unable to speak at first. Then, he drags his gaze up from Arthur’s cock—and is reassured/emboldened by its angry flush—up to Arthur’s dark gaze. Just because he can find his words doesn’t mean he’s not as affected as Eames is, and to prove it to himself, Eames bows out both legs, widening their spread.

“Fuck me,” he says. 

🍕

Arthur’s all grace under pressure. Despite the jerk of his cock and the first sight of pre-come at its head, he rolls on the condom and slicks himself up with a steady hand. He catches Eames’ hungry gaze. His mouth twitches as he pours more lube into his hand. He guides Eames’ leg around his hip. Once Eames complies, Arthur crawls single-armed to hover over him. He only breaks eye contact to look down, glancing between them as he rubs at Eames’ furl of skin with his thumb.

“Has it been a while?”

The press of Arthur’s thumb is enough to derail Eames’ remaining neurons. His brain short-circuits. Instead of conjuring a response, he shakes his head. 

The intrusion is bearable, but Eames gives his cock a few pulls for good measure. It’s just as well since he’s given little respite. It takes no time at all for Arthur to replace his thumb with a long index finger. Eames grunts, hole fluttering as he forces himself to relax. 

His eyes roll to the back of his head when Arthur slips his middle finger into him. 

_Right there_ , he thinks, clenching down on the intrusion. 

“Yeah? Good?”

Eames nods breathlessly, giving his cock a squeeze. The pleasure from Arthur’s touch is slow to build, but inexorable. A leaden counterweight to the sharp arousal he feels under the steady rhythm of his own hand.

Arthur drops down to his forearm and tucks his elbow into Eames’ ribs. They fit perfectly like this; their heights matched. Eames relinquishes his cock and blindly reaches for Arthur’s, desperate to feel the weight of it in his palm before feeling it inside him.

Arthur bucks into the touch, fingers stilling. Eames clenches needily around Arthur’s knuckles.

He groans when Arthur breaks the kiss to press their foreheads together. 

“Grab your knees,” Arthur instructs, fingers slipping out. He pushes up onto his hands and glances between them while Eames does what he’s told. Balancing on one arm, Arthur lines himself up and sinks in without preamble.

Arthur doesn’t bother with slow and steady. It’s sudden and delicious. It’s mind-wiping fullness that Eames chases with a tight clench. They both make inelegant sounds at opposite ends of the range spectrum—Eames high and Arthur low. 

Eames winds his arms around Arthur’s shoulders as Arthur guides Eames’ legs around his waist. It is easy to slot themselves together, two sides of a coin joined by a singular point of tension. Arthur drops down to his forearms, wrapping his hands over the curve of Eames’ shoulders. They stare at one another as Arthur makes abortive little thrusts, barely unsheathing himself. Two strangers embarking on a particularly intimate exchange; whatever recklessness sparked this encounter is now worlds away.

Eames strokes the length of Arthur’s back, tentatively clenching and releasing.

“God—” Arthur exhales, dropping his head forward— “you’re so tight—” he balances his forehead against Eames’ chin— “Fuck.”

“You’re delightfully thick,” Eames counters with a huff. Arthur’s hair tickles his nose and gets into his mouth when he speaks. He cups the back of Arthur’s head and pulls, fisting the messy mane to free his airway.

Arthur bucks forward, his hair-trigger scalp oversensitive. The unspoken standstill comes to a sudden end as Arthur repeats the movement, thrusting shallow into the vice grip of Eames’ body.

Eames hums, eyes closing. He spreads his fingers through the frizzy curls and urges Arthur up, bringing their mouths together. He breaks away after a brief closed-mouth kiss. “Touch me,” he says, feeling himself wilting slightly at the intrusion.

Arthur presses his lips to Eames’ as a parting gesture before journeying south. He drags his parted lips along Eames’ jawline, mouthing heated skin against the grain of stubble.

When Arthur latches on to that sweet spot between chin and Adam’s apple, Eames arches into it, tightening his grip on Arthur’s hair and shoulder. He clenches against the intrusion, the resistance drawing Arthur out further and further until Arthur shifts his hips and slams into him, all but embedding himself into the fabric of Eames’ being.

Arthur continues to adjust his angle until Eames digs his nails into his shoulders and throws his head back, moaning—loud and wanton. Having found the perfect slide into Eames’ body, Arthur works up to a punishing pace to drive more of those sounds out of Eames, neighbours be damned.

Eames holds onto Arthur for dear life, panting hot and humid into Arthur’s ear when Arthur tucks his face into his neck. Eames can’t help himself from groping at the body covering his, turned on by the strength of it and desperate to hang on as Arthur pistons into him, glancing his prostate on every downstroke.

Arthur mouths at everything his lips touch—jaw, ear, cheek, temple, his pleasure a loud murmur at the back of his throat. Eames is rocked into a new plane of existence, fingers dumb as they attempt to grasp at sweaty skin. He relinquishes all control to fall into the net that is Arthur. Arthur, who surrounds him entirely, who is everything Eames can feel, hear, smell, see. It’s too much and not enough all at once.

“Eames,” Arthur pants into his skin before pushing himself up onto trembling arms.

Eames presses his palm against Arthur’s collarbone and brings his other hand between them to stroke himself. He’s close, but the world is spinning, and the finish line doesn’t stay put. He fists himself with ruthless pulls, trying—and failing—to meet Arthur’s pace. The bedding feels damp beneath his shoulders as he curls away from it, dropping his chin to his chest to watch where their bodies connect. His stomach is glistening from his arousal.

“Eames,” Arthur repeats. The sudden shift startles Eames out of his daze. He finds himself whimpering at the momentary pause, watching as though out of body when Arthur hooks his knees over his elbows. The press of Arthur’s thighs, solid and slick against the back of Eames’ is grounding. Eames reaches overhead to fist at the bedding while continuing to stroke his cock, desperate to peak.

“What?” Eames asks, delayed, distracted, and just this side of petulant. He sounds drugged, his throat raw.

“I’m going to come—” Arthur announces, thrusts shallow as Eames’ continues to clench around him—“You close?”

“I need—” Eames tightens his fingers around the base of his cock—“I need to hear—” breathing hurts—“Come back here…”

Arthur leans forward, pressing in deep. Eames can barely find the breath necessary to moan, folded in half as his ankles slot themselves over Arthur’s shoulders. Arthur’s grip changes then, bruising the crease of thigh and hip as he pulls Eames onto his cock to meet his ruthless, deep thrusts. Every downstroke and upstroke catch Eames’ prostate, the pleasure of it pulsing through his body.

Eames relinquishes the bedding to hold the back of Arthur’s head. It’s impossible to kiss like this, he’s not flexible enough to bend any further, the bulk of his thighs and thick torso resistant. His grip slips, their skin damp with sweat. He twists his fingers into the hair Arthur’s nape and quickens the stroke of his hand around his cock, feeling his balls drawing tight against his body.

Desperate, Eames yanks on Arthur’s hair, sending Arthur careening over the edge. 

Arthur bites down Eames’ forearm, groaning. He continues to rock his hips as he pulses, fingertips turning white as they promise to leave their mark on Eames’ thighs.

The sharp edge of pain is exactly what Eames needs. Dropping his legs from Arthur’s shoulders, he roots his heels into the mattress’ edge and thrusts his hips upwards, clenching down hard. Arthur’s hips stutter, the weight of him pressed into Eames’ prostate. Eames manages one more stroke before he crests, dropping weightlessly over the edge. He nearly drowns in the thick of it, his body taut as he comes.

Eames remains that way, muscles tight and joints locked until one deep breath breaks the spell. He melts into the bedding, his entire body going liquid.

Arthur makes a strangled noise as he’s released from the vice of Eames’ body. He eases out gently, holding his body up with shaking arms. Once free, he tips over to the side, crashing into the bed with a bounce as his heels hit the bed frame.

The air cools the sweat on his skin, sending a chill up his spine. He eases down from the cloud he’s on, growing aware of where his body ends. 

Eames turns to look at Arthur, gazing at him through heavy lids. There’s a part of him that wants to roll onto his side to seek warmth, but he feels boneless. Breathing is effort enough. Instead, he lifts one hand and ghosts his knuckles across Arthur’s ribs.

Arthur shivers at the touch. It seems to draw him out from his daze. He casts a furtive glance over at Eames, before sitting up. Eames trails his fingertips down Arthur’s flank before dropping his hand to the mattress, much too lazy.

Arthur ties off the condom and tosses it onto the nightstand. He then drops his head forward, elbows resting on his thighs. Eames watches the sweat glistening across his back and yearns to lick it. With a grunt, he sits up, tucking his right ankle under his left knee. He leans forward to lick Arthur’s shoulder, punctuating it with a nip. It takes a moment for the room to stop spinning.

Arthur glances over, expression amused.

“You good?” 

Eames gently bites in response, looking at him up through his lashes. He doesn’t expect his affectionate streak to be matched, but he’s relieved to find Arthur’s not about to kick him out bed for it. Eames has had his unfortunate share of bedmates over the years, some which didn’t take kindly to his post-coital flirtations.

“When’s round two?” Eames asks, expression cheeky as he hooks his chin over Arthur’s shoulder. He glances down Arthur’s body, feeling a curl of heat in his gut. As eager as he is to get his mouth on Arthur’s glistening cock and taste him, he doubts that’d be welcome. It’d also require a considerable amount of movement that Eames is incapable of at present.

Arthur chuckles before leaning down to catch Eames’ mouth.

Eames hums, reaching around Arthur’s waist with both arms.

They remain that way for a few minutes, kissing lazily until Arthur’s stomach growls.

Eames pulls away, chuckling, “It has a point and I’ve got just the thing.”

“Mm—” Arthur hums, pressing their mouths together— “That so?”

“Mm—” Eames noses along Arthur’s cheek, voice dropping to a whisper—“How do you feel about pizza?”

“Oh, I love pizza.”

🍕


End file.
